


My Darling, Guinevere:

by ChocolateCarnival



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Epistolary, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Written after TGC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:11:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateCarnival/pseuds/ChocolateCarnival
Summary: Spending the night working late at the new Kingsman shop, Arthur swirls a tumbler of single malt scotch in the palm of his hand as he endeavours to write a letter to his beloved boy.





	My Darling, Guinevere:

**Author's Note:**

> Hello My Honeys,
> 
> This is just a short piece that I wrote to get into Harry's character after The Golden Circle, a way for me to create a more accurate characterization for Refractory Sunset that takes place specifically as a rewrite for TGC. I find it a great way to explore a character's mindset if you write a letter or diary entry from their perspective. 
> 
> This is basically just a love | lust letter that Harry wrote to Eggsy. There's not really any plot or too much detail but I also needed to practice my grasp of explicit scenes again since I haven't written a 'sex scene' in over three years, holy shit. 
> 
> I feel a bit rusty. 
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy this short Epistolary. I enjoyed writing is far more than I should have.

**My Darling, Guinevere** : ****  
  
---  
|   
  
  


Time cannot comprehend the depths of how much my heart misses you, darling Eggsy. It has been but two weeks since we have parted on professional grounds. And as of yet, in the passing days that we have not connected our gazes or a single touch, my encompassing need for you refuses to wane. Not that I shall ever have the strength to fragment that shameful part of myself, my dear. 

Even with you traipsing the Alps in France and the dangers of the world gallivanting mere meters away from you, I feel selfish enough to misuse my authority as Arthur to simply call you back to satiate this endless desire sparking so brilliantly between us. Alas, I have been told that for Queen and Country, as droll as it sounds, and Kingsman; I must sit back and watch as one of our best agents completes his missions through nothing more than violence-distorted lenses. 

The rivulets of blood that dry and crust upon your skin, caking vibrant vermillion red beneath perfectly manicured fingernails is a treat I wish to lap up with the tip of my tongue and cleanse with reverent kisses. What a sight you are, my darling boy, with a dual-barrel standard issue pistol clasped effortlessly in the palm of your hand and _my_ black Rainmaker dancing like a lethal companion by your side in the other. 

The Rainmaker which I am well aware you pilfered from my munitions supply. I can still vividly recall the moment I woke up on Tuesday morning to find my office empty of its most prized weapon and a cheeky note proclaiming: “Cheers, Harry”. You _do_ realize that I cannot condone such disobedience, darling? I will have to punish you when you return to me. And _that_ is a declaration I vow to follow. 

You _will_ return to me Eggsy Unwin. I accept nothing more than your complete compliance in this situation, I will _not_ sit by as you recklessly etch away the value of your life for the sake of a mission. I _forbid_ it. 

But if only you could see yourself in the field, darling boy. It makes my heart ache to recapture the year we lost to the hands of an environmentalist megalomaniac. I simply cannot forgive myself for forgetting the sweet boy who turned my entire life upside down in the span of seven months, the dearest heart who awoke this old man’s crystallized core with sun-bright viridian green eyes and jaw defiantly squared on the steps of Holborn Police Station. 

The past may still be in the past, Eggsy, but I will never forget the moment I saw _you_ again for the first time. Not the lovely young man always swaggering into my prison and personal space seeking to stir up forgotten memories and my cock with heated glances. You had been so strong in that moment, so _unwavering_ in your loyalty that even through the smallest tremors wracking your frame, you _still_ refused to let me fade into obscurity. 

Wedged between you and the wall as I had been, the tiny Cairn terrier puppy whining his discomfort between us; I vividly recall the sensual weight of your embrace and the bittersweet burnt cocoa and sharp bergamot of your cologne as you whispered my name: “Hello, Harry.” It had resounded deafeningly through the tiny space left between us, like a lighting strike dragging me back from an ocean of despair. I had known then that the complex emotions concealed in your voice would forever be carved into the depths of my soul. The full-body shudder it induced, did _things_ to me. _Things_ which I now endeavour to chase every time I am privileged enough to spread your youthful limbs out beneath me and kiss the definitive sweetness lingering upon your tongue. 

That first time we kissed, embers of adrenaline still burning bright after the mission in Cambodia; scorched my lips with unabashed yearning. I wanted to claim you all for myself in the cabin of that plane, to brand my fingertips onto your hips and leave brutal bite marks on the pale skin of your neck. Your head had tipped back in such a sensual display of pure need, a pleasured moan hissing passed luscious pink lips as I barely restrained myself from ravishing you right _there_. 

It did not matter, at the time, that we had a world-famous passenger a mere wooden door away from us or we were covered in blood and dust and the scent of death. I had always known you would whine so prettily for me, my darling boy. You would welcome me between the space of your thighs with a natural ease as I took you apart achingly slowly, over and over and over again. 

Even now, clasping a tumbler of forty-four Glendronach from the Merlin’s old stockpile, I can barely find the incentive to keep my fingertips from surreptitiously sliding up the ruined line of my trousers to take myself in hand. All because thoughts of you have been spinning incessantly in the forefront of my mind for the past two weeks. Not even the autumn breeze sweeping through the office from the open window, is enough to ease the blazing hot arousal spinning a ball of tension at the dip of my spine. 

I find it both severely disappointing and physically painful not to have you here with me. I can just imagine the sensation of your shapely thighs sitting astride my lap, rocking back and forth in lazy pleasure as we seek to satiate that deliciously frantic storm building within the absence of sanity. The ambient passion that always darkens the colour of your eyes to that lovely glassy green and coaxes precariously hitching breaths from between kiss-reddened lips. 

There will be nothing perceptible outside our tumble and fall into age-old cardinal sin, my darling boy. I feel as if I can never get enough of you. I can never hold back, never settle for anything but watching as you shake apart in the circle of my arms. The complex flow of emotions that bind us together through forgotten memories and observations of death, can only be labelled as all-encompassing love and corrupt desperation to have each other spread out across any available flat surface. 

In all fifty-three years of my life, Eggsy, you are the first person to scorch my skin with mere salacious winks and lazy-afternoon fucks that become so intense we may as well be the only two people left alive. The mere thought of you tangled in my bedsheets, moaning unrestrainedly into a pristine white pillowcase with filaments of russet gold locks feather in a dishevelled mess about your head; is more than enough to utterly _ruin_ me. Regardless of whether we are sitting at the Table for debrief or you are several international borders away. 

The _things_ I want to do to you, my boy. My mind has become caked with utter filth over the past few days. I am slowly losing my mind. I desperately yearn to follow the sinuous arch of your spine with lazy fingertips as I split you open with the length of my cock, to watch enraptured as sheer ecstasy crosses your features the moment you surrender yourself to me fully. 

I want to work you open, darling, just so that I may shatter you from within. 

I would swallow your cries of agonized delight with the curl of my tongue, quietly muffle the countless breathless exhales in the depths of my mouth as your lithe body tenses and sways through desperately restrained quivers. Your image constantly swirls in front of my eyes, almost as if it had been stitched there by the constant need I have of you. It is like neither of us know exactly where propriety should end and debauchery begin. 

So, my sweetest darling boy — would you permit me a night of pure indulgence at mission’s end? 

I want to spread you half-naked over Arthur’s desk, bound in the sleeves and unsnapped cuffs of your shirt as I eat out your lovely pink hole from behind. I would, ever so slowly, make you glisten with a thick layer of saliva, dripping salacious little droplets down the inside of your thighs as I spear you open, again and again, with the tip of my tongue. I would watch, unabashed, as you writhed in a maddening search for release — lips slackened with pleasure as filthy strings of spit formed a small pool on the mahogany desk beneath your cheek. 

Jesus Christ, you would even _taste_ sweet wouldn’t you? All clean and lax from the shower you took on the plane. You would be such a good boy for me wouldn’t you, Eggsy? Bent over my desk, front scraping needily across the polished surface as you didn’t dare move until I told you to or come until I granted permission. 

I can imagine it now, the subtle pink flush of your skin as you rocked back and forth in search of friction on smooth, polished, wood. You would fight so hard to contain your cries and sense of self when I order you to stay still. The office would be strewn in the remnants of our haste, bespoke trousers and a pinstriped jacket crumpled carelessly on the floor as half abandoned Oxfords rested somewhere close to the door. 

Black Kingsman issue glasses would still be perched precariously on the tip of your nose, recording the late night darkness flickering brighter in the glow of several lit desk lamps as only white shirt cuffs, binding your arms behind your back and partially fastened over your torso; offered a slip of modesty to the open brocade curtains facing the ever-busy Savile Row. 

Oh, but there would be no question as to what we are doing, darling boy. It would be like opening a gift. The heady burn of tanned skin beading with sweat beneath the drag of my palms, the lavish white fabric further tangling your movements as I slid it down your arms and deftly undid the last remaining buttons. You would whine so prettily for me as I marked the skin of your neck where the collar rested previously, wouldn’t you? As I trailed across the arch of your spine to bite and lick at the soft flesh shifting so restlessly between my teeth? 

The taste of your skin, I know, would be salty-bitter — scorched irrevocably with the blistering adrenaline of getting caught and the undeniable arousal of our actions together. You would even arch and grind back against the hardness of my own prick. But your impatience would get you nowhere, love. Not even your filthy mouth rasping a slew of creative ‘fucks’ and ‘Harry’s’, would grant you mercy. No matter how much I adore hearing my name fall so heatedly from the tip of your tongue, I have strength enough to make you truly beg for it. 

And as you know, I tolerate nothing more than a slow cadence of pleasure on days like these. At least until I have you sobbing for release, rapturous tears streaking glistening tracks across flushed cheeks as I shifted back to my knees behind you to continue what we were doing. Time would distort and stretch for you, darling. I would make sure that you could not tell the minutes from the seconds, the hours from the days. 

I would dutifully keep you hovering on the blurred lines of sanity with increments of pleasure too small to completely push you over the edge. 

It wouldn’t be until I joined a finger, then two, then three, with the explorations of my tongue inside you that I would stop teasing. I would carefully push the pads of my fingers in as deep as they could go, using the slickness gathered around your hole to ease the way inside as I searched for that sweet little spot that completely shatters you with pleasure every time. Again and again I would chase after it, twisting and curling the digits until the fine tremor in your thighs and the sensation of pre-come dripping a constantly stream of pearly white onto polished wood, becomes far too much. 

Oh. How I look forward to that moment; watching you from behind as the crown of your head is thrown back in rapturous release and your spine arches like a cat beneath my gaze. Muscles rigid and vibrating with strain as I leave a wine-red bite mark on the lovely round globes of your arse and smear droplets of white across a previously pristine shirt. 

The soft lighting of the office would set coppery blonde locks alight with streaks of pure gold, your skin still shimmering in a fine sheen of sweat as darkening reddish strands fall out of a perfectly slicked-back pomade shape. I have wanted to wind my fingers through the feathery softness of your hair since the moment I saw you again. To use it as the leverage to fit a warm, wet, mouth over the head of my cock to see just how far I can slide down your throat. 

I know intimately it can go very deep, all the way down until your nose is brushing against the waistband of my trousers and you are practically chocking around your mouthful. You do so love kneeling beneath my desk, don’t you Eggsy? It wouldn’t matter if I was in the middle of a meeting or busy with important paperwork. I still don’t understand how you can emerge, dressed immaculately in your Kingsman suit, with only the faintest of blushes creeping across your cheeks as you throw a cheeky wink in my direction in askance for more. 

I promise you, darling, when you get back I will take you apart from the beginning again. You will remember no one else’s name but my own as I fuck you into our mattress, over my desk at home, in the office and Arthur’s private quarters at the distillery in Scotland. We have all of the next week off until you are allowed back in the field again, I will not move on that order even if the world is crumbling to ash around us. 

I shall not waste a second of possessing you again. I so dearly want my darling boy curled contentedly in my arms, the slow exhalations of your breath brushing against my neck as only the sunrise and sunset marks the hours of the day. It would just be the two us, our puppies and the sweet curl of time. However, even as I say that I know work will endeavour to tear us apart in one way or another. 

It is a nightmare here at the distillery, darling. The new recruits are causing so much trouble under the guidance of young Tequila, I often wonder which one of you two are going to drive me into an early grave first. I barely have a few hours to myself these days, it’s a complete miracle that I even managed to find the time to write to you. 

Alas, my last order still stands, darling boy. I expect you in my office 09:00 A.M GMT, tomorrow. Please do not indulge yourself in the Galahad tradition of being late, I will not tolerate it after three weeks of being unable to see you. I am quite amused to inform you that the few surviving Kingsman, Lancelot, Whiskey and Tequila have unofficially codenamed you Guinevere here at the office. It seems that one of our late night trysts in my office had gotten a tad too rambunctious. 

Stay safe, darling Guinevere. I patiently await your return to my side. 

Your Loving Arthur, 

Harry 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank for reading, I really appreciate it. Please drop me a little review if you enjoyed it :). I would greatly appreciate that. 
> 
> Also, I've also guiltily be wanting to write a Firtherton one-shot of about 10 000 or more words sometime in the near future. I simply adore the sparking chemistry between Colin Firth and Taron Egerton and would love to explore it on set of the second Kingsman film. 
> 
> Does anyone have any helpful advice on how to write it without feeling so guilty all the time? 
> 
> Anyways, thanks again
> 
> Chocolate Carnival


End file.
